


Gaining Ground

by misaffection



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After chasing Camille halfway down the beach, Richard decides a more direct approach is required.</p><p>Smut-filled alternative episode tag. Please don't read if you don't like that kind of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaining Ground

Shifting sand is not easy to run on. Richard pulls up, panting hard, and glares at Camille. Her laughter rolls in on the surf. He shakes his head, half frustrated, half exhilarated by their mad chase along the beach. The sun is low, the heat of the day slipping into a more pleasant warmth. Not that it makes a difference to how much he’s sweating – his shirt clings to his back and under his arms. He’s tempted to take it off.

“What are you waiting for, Richard?” Camille taunts. She thinks he won’t go in the water. He narrows his eyes and reaches for his tie.

Her grin drops as it does, her laughter fading as his shirt follows it to the sand. He sits and removes his shoes, balls up his socks and then rolls up his trousers. As the vernacular would have it; shit is about to get serious.

Camille barks a laugh as he wades in. The water is warm and the sand beneath his feet that little firmer. He pushes concerns about urchins and crabs to one side, weighs his options, and then launches into an attack. She squeals and bolts. But she’s in deeper and that balances against her fitness to put him on a more equal footing, meaning he closes the gap quicker than he was expecting.

Gaining ground is one thing, deciding what to do with his errant sergeant is quite another. Richard settles for grabbing her, winding one arm around her slender waist, and then lifts her bodily. She shrieks but then is laughing too hard to affect an escape. He half carries, half drags her back to the beach.

He deposits her in the sand and drops on top of her. She giggles and shoves at his shoulders, so he pins her wrists down. “Gotchya.”

The adrenaline dwindles, leaving Richard with the sharp realisation as to their relative positions. Her hair is mussed, her cheeks flushed from exertion, her lips parted as she hauls in oxygen. She has to be stripping it from the air, because his ears are humming and he’s feeling very light-headed.

He can’t think, and that scares him a little as it’s the one thing he’s good at. If he can’t do that, then he doesn’t know who he is. Feeling adrift, he needs an anchor and what he has is her. Releasing her wrists, he leans down until her breath washes over his face.

A smile curls her lips and she tilts her head in an invitation not even he can misread. He closes the gap, kisses her full on the mouth. She gives a soft hum and circles her arms around his neck. Since she’s doing that and not hitting him, he teases her lips apart and slips his tongue between them.

She counters, duelling with him, and her hands sweep the length of his spine, hot through the cotton of his vest. He wishes he hadn’t worn it, or taken the damn thing off along with the shirt, because he wants to feel her against his skin. The he gets that wish – she tugs the vest free of his trousers and then her hands…

Richard groans into her mouth, desire drowning out every thought that’s not of her, of the way she feels, of the taste of her mouth or how smooth the skin of her sides are. No bra hampers his upwards quest and she bucks when his thumb rubs over her nipple.

His dick is hard but there are too many clothes in the way. He’d do something about that, but it means stopping kissing her, means having to tear himself away from her, and he doesn’t want to do either. Even as he vaguely thinks about the problem, and how aware Camille has to be about the effect she’d has, she winds one leg over his and shifts her hips.

“Oh God.”

He’s rubbing against her before he processes his actions, and then it’s too late and he can’t stop if he tried. It’d be a different matter if she asked him, but she’s not saying more than a litany of very dirty French, so he reckons this is all right. And to be honest, it feels it too. Perhaps less clothes would make it better, but then there’s all the sand and he’d rather not put her through that.

Richard moves his mouth to the damp column of her neck. Her pulse flickers rapidly under his lips and she tastes of sea and sweat. The hollowed dip where neck meets shoulder proves a sensitive point and she moans and writhes. Every vein is pounding light, his nerves fizzing with electrical shocks. He grinds his hips harder, trying to get closer, needing more of something he can’t even name.

“Camille.”

“Yes.” She pants the affirmation. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He doesn’t know what the question is. The sea could roll over him and he’d not be aware of it. Nothing exists but her and the need that drives his hips to rock against hers, the friction causing an almost painful ache.

“I want…” He’s not good at words. Never has been. “I want you.”

“Here?”

“I want to fuck you.” It’s out of his mouth without the benefit of being thought about. But she gives a dirty giggle and he no longer cares. “Hard and fast and deep.”

She shoves at his shoulder, holds him above her. Her eyes are dark but her grin is a white curve in the gloom. “I thought sand was unsanitary?”

“I didn’t say here. I just don’t want to move right now.” Awkwardness rears its ugly head, bringing uncertainty along for the ride. “If I stop, I might not have the nerve to start over.”

Her smile gentles. “Afraid that I might come to my senses?”

He nods. “Something like that… or exactly.”

“Richard, how can you be both crazily clever _and_ impossibly dense? Or did you miss the part where I was kissing you back?”

“In the moment.”

“Screw the moment!” She looks as startled as he feels. Then she laughs and shakes her head. “I could have outrun you, but I didn’t. I wanted you to catch me, Richard. And, if I’m really honest, I don’t want you to let me go.”

He opens his mouth, but her expression is open and vulnerable. She means every word. Uncertainty gets tossed out as desire makes a welcome return. He doesn’t think very well on it, but perhaps overthinking isn’t the best approach to this. Whatever it is.

Richard pushes against her and she bucks to meet him. Her lips part on a moan that shoots to his groin. He’s close to embarrassing himself, but he wants to make her… make that noise again. So, sand or no sand, he lowers back down and snakes one arm under her shoulder, holding her just there as he lets his body do the talking. Her breathing sharpens at each roll of his hips. Her grip on his arm tightens and her eyes squeeze shut. He finds her breast once more and kneads it in time.

Camille gives a little, broken cry and then goes still, except he feels the tremors that dart through her. He watches her come undone, her head back, her breath caught in her throat. Her grip is like iron, her nails digging into his skin. He thinks she might leave marks and grins at the thought.

She gasps then and goes limp, her hand relaxing. The glance she gives him is a mixture of amusement, shyness and delight.

“Well,” she says.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t think you had that in you, Richard.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Makes me wonder what other… tricks you have hidden.”

He gives her a slow smile. “Want to find out?”

She laughs and pulls him down for what ends up being a long and very thorough kiss. When she lets him up, her expression is hungry. “Oh, yes, very much.”


End file.
